a novice among the heirs to the Moderns, dumbfounded,
struck to the core by a new way of feeling, of seeing.
an empty vessel needing, patiently waiting
for the cool waters of a relevant vision to fill me.
Yet, I would make
the required pilgrimages: to both cities and countries
near and far, ancient and new, expected and unexpected where
I would kneel
at the alters of pigmented flesh made tangible. Of illusion
made actual. Of devotion made from blood, from tears, divine.
I would spend
countless hours dedicated to unknowable allegory. To
dreams long dead, written in a untraceable and silent code.
misread because I’d never been told them. Stories
created for the glory of the Kings of God and
the Kings of Men.
Still, I longed for
a different kind of story, one told in a clear language. A language
that spoke for the disintegration of a singular and harrowing age.
Not made for but by. The creators’ visions created. Visions of
shock, disbelief, power, remorse, enlightenment, understanding..
like O’Hara, to almost ‘fall in love with painting’. To feel
that gut-wrenching, spine-tingling, awe-inspiring
lust for more.
So I stand
among immense images, jubilant colors, enthralling ideas,
that everywhere engulf me. That play against my eye,
as if alive. Pulsating pigment, luscious texture, tactile
surfaces of beeswax and of pigment, of the New York Times
and of silk.
I want to run my fingertips over them, to caress them.
I want to run my tongue over them, to savor them.
I want to understand their related allegory,
their unconscious dream,
their wild and passionate stories of a time so near.
I want to take them inside me, and in so doing, to
make them a part of who I am and will always be.
centuries back with respect.
decades back with belonging.
years ahead with anticipation.
who speaks for me and
I know now
where I belong